by Jay Allan
“What are you going to do with this…thing?”
“Nothing, Doctor. Nothing at all. As long as our independence and privacy is respected. Indeed, in that case we will continue to cooperate with the republic, sharing the fruits of our ongoing research.”
“And if the government won’t accept your quickening a thousand new Mules?”
“We will ignore them, Doctor. But I sense that you wish to know how we would response if military sanctions were employed against us. In that eventuality, we would have no choice but to defend ourselves. We have one hundred of these security bots ready to deploy, Doctor, with several hundred more in production. I can see from your reaction they remind you of First Imperium units. Indeed, their design derives from the ancient specifications, though we have made some considerable changes, most importantly with the controlling AIs.”
“Changes?”
“Yes. In reading the accounts of the fleet’s actions, as well as the battles occurring back in human space, it became apparent the First Imperium combat algorithms were entirely inadequate. Indeed, both in space and on the ground, the human victories were won in spite of enemy technological superiority and numbers. The problem wasn’t the technology or design—indeed, both of those were well in advance of human norms—but it was clear the First Imperium had never faced a species as naturally adept at war as mankind.”
“You changed the AI directives?”
“Changed? No. Modifications could only improve things from a substandard base. No, Doctor Cutter…we wrote entirely new code, an AI operating system based on Marine training and history. These bots are programmed with the tactics of the Marines…our dear General Frasier, as well as the complete records of other heroes. Elias Holm, Erik Cain, Darius Jax.” Achilles paused and stared at Cutter. “I assure you, Doctor, these bots are more than capable of facing anything the government chooses to throw at us.”
Cutter was stunned, sick to his stomach. He’d suspected the Mules had been up to something, but he’d never imagined the extent of it. He wanted to condemn them, to lash out, call them traitors…but he couldn’t forget the injustices that had been done to them. Would he have felt any different after twenty-five years? Would anyone?
“Please, Achilles…do not do this. Give me another chance to speak with President Harmon. Perhaps we can…”
“I am sorry, but with all due respect to you, Father…the time for talk has passed. It is now time for action. Time for us to secure a future, for all Mules living today…and for the thousands to follow.”
Cutter got up, but the Mules behind him closed in around him.
“I’m sorry, Doctor, but I’m afraid we can’t let you leave, not yet. Not until our defenses are fully deployed. You will not be harmed, you have my most earnest word on that. You will always be welcome among us, your children. But we cannot allow you to try and stop us, not in this.”
Cutter felt darkness creeping over him, almost panic. Like the rest of the Pilgrims, he’d lived through the nightmare of the fleet’s journey, to see the founding of a new civilization, one with hope, with a future. And now he felt he was watching the beginning of the end.
The Mules’ logic was utterly sound, but it focused only on their own needs. The others, the extremists, would use the Mules’ defiance to push their own agendas, to stir up fear and hatred in bids to gain power. Cutter hadn’t been well-versed in the history of politics during the days of the old fleet, but he’d studied the records more seriously in the intervening years. He’d been stunned by the machinations and scheming that had gone on, even in the old fleet, the attempts to push differing agendas, even the mutiny that had almost ended in disaster…and he’d wanted to know more. What he had learned had reduced his view of his own species. Indeed, such thoughts had no doubt been in the back of his mind when he tried to improve upon mankind. And now it was his own creations threatening the peace of the republic.
NBs, Tanks, Mules…he knew things would spiral out of control…and when it was over, what would be left of Earth Two?
Chapter Eleven
From the Journal of Hieronymus Cutter
As I write this, I am a prisoner, held captive by a group of beings I, myself, created. I was thrilled when the Hybrids first developed from the hybrid embryos. I watched with anticipation as they grew…and soon it became apparent they would reach adulthood at an age when normal human children were young adolescents.
Their physical strength and herculean constitutions exceeded even my wildest hopes. In the twenty-eight years they have existed, no Hybrid has ever been sick. No colds, no infectious diseases of any kind. No cancers, no degenerative illnesses. Each of them is, and has always been, a textbook model of health.
But it is their intellects that most amazed me. I’d designed them to be smarter, spliced First Imperium DNA into their human genetic material…and subtly edited their genes. But again, they exceeded my expectations. Even as children, they tore through the First Imperium records. Formulas and equations that seemed insoluble to me were an afternoon’s work for them. They craved the knowledge of the ancients, their magnificent minds longing for the challenges.
And as they deciphered the wonders of the Ancients, the republic prospered. Particle accelerators replaced laser cannon on our warships. Force dampeners eliminated the need for the bulky and uncomfortable tanks that had allowed high-gee maneuvering. Automation multiplied productivity a hundred-fold…and in a scant few years, our republic became a wealthy, prosperous society.
What rewards did the people of the republic bestow on those few who had done so much? They responded not with gratitude but with fear. They hungrily accepted every scientific advance secured by the Hybrids…but they shunned them, restricted them. They passed laws banning the production of any more Hybrids, and refused to repeal them when it became apparent that the Hybrids’ single genetic flaw was an inability to reproduce naturally…that a ban on quickenings ensured there would be no new births.
The name Mule came into use, at first a mocking term, targeting the Hybrids’ sterility. But the Mules were still children, and the strength of their minds remained focused on their work. Indeed, they embraced the name, began to call themselves Mules. When they were young, they tried to integrate with the rest of the population, but the others were afraid and stayed away from them…and over time they became insular, preferring cloistered lives of research among their own kind over interaction with those they began to call Norms.
I do not condone what they have done…and for all their astonishing intelligence, I suspect they are rather naïve with regard to politics. But I understand it. The Mules are all the same age. They have no younger brothers and sisters, no children. It is easy to look at them, to be stunned by their intelligence and expect them to be above the normal motivations of men and women…yet they are not. I long suspected it, but now I realize their pain was greater than I had imagined.
I find myself hoping President Harmon will negotiate with them, that he will find some middle ground, avert the catastrophe I fear is unfolding around us. But then I know he cannot, that any such action would only hand the reins of government to others, to men and women far less just and fair than my friend Max Harmon.
I don’t see a solution, any path to lead us away from the brink. And that scares me profoundly. I have not been so afraid since the days I spent underground with the Marines, fighting the battle robots of the First Imperium. But I was younger then…and I don’t know if I have the strength to face anything like that again. Or the determination to try to stop the Mules, for they seek only what should always have been theirs…
Bridge, E2S Compton
System G-35, Eleven Transits from Earth Two
Earth Two Date 11.23.30
“The fighters are back in the bay, Admiral.” Commander Minh and his team are supervising the unloading.”
“Very well. Advise Commander Minh I need his findings as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Kemp leaned over his com u
nit, relaying the order.
Frette was impressed how quickly her strike force commander and his wingmen had retrieved the drone. The new fighters had force dampeners just like the mains ships of the fleet, but a fighter didn’t have the power to run one on full strength like a larger ship did. Which meant McDaid and his people had endured one hell of an uncomfortable ride with the gees they had pulled.
Frette had little direct experience with fighter-bombers, serving most of her time in the fleet on cruisers. But Mariko Fujin had recommended McDaid to her for Compton’s small fighter wing…and Fujin was a lot more than President Harmon’s wife. She was the republic’s leading authority on fighter tactics, and West and Frette had both happily taken her suggestion.
Frette looked at the chronometer. Two minutes had passed. She realized it could be hours before she knew anything. She shifted in her chair, trying to get comfortable. She was tense, edgy. She’d fought a few times since the Regent’s destruction, mostly leading task forces against rogue First Imperium squadrons, but it had been more than twenty years now since she’d faced the prospect of combat in space. She was a veteran, and she remembered every battle, every desperate struggle. But it was still hard to imagine doing it again. She’d grumbled about the hours behind a desk her job had required, the lack of excitement…but she had to admit there was something to coming home at night, feeling the ground beneath her feet. She had the core of confidence of a woman who had spent decades at war, but the exterior had gone soft, and now she doubted herself, wondered if she still had what it took to lead a force in battle.
If it comes to that…there are still many possibilities…
She looked around the bridge. Her people were good…handpicked. But they were young. She and Kemp were the only Pilgrims on the bridge, and two of only seven on the whole ship. Every man and woman who had reached Earth Two had been a member of the fleet or a Marine. But the demobilizations after the Regent’s death had been extensive, with just enough veterans retained to stave off the residual forces of the First Imperium. There had been a new priority at work, the creation of a viable society. And that required civilians, the development of industry, the construction of a city. It also necessitated more population, and a social imperative was created, one encouraging large families. The birth of children was celebrated, and it even came to be considered the duty of Earth Two’s citizens to reproduce.
But Nicki Frette had not taken that course. A hero in the wake of her daring rescue of Max Harmon and Ana Zhukov, she remained in uniform, rising rapidly to flag rank. She had worked around the clock during the lean years, when force reductions had crippled the navy, before the new generation had reached maturity. And then she worked alongside Admiral West to integrate the new recruits and Academy graduates into the skeletal remains of the old force. Her efforts had been rewarded with success. The navy was strong again, the most powerful it had been since the fleet’s arrival. The oldest of the new wave of spacers and officers had eight to ten years of experience, many rising to command rank, if on a somewhat accelerated schedule, replacing captains who had grown gray in the service holding the line until their replacements were ready.
But all she had achieved had not come without personal cost. She had been young enough to have children, certainly, when the fleet reached Earth Two, but somehow there had just never been time. The years passed, but the workload never declined, and now she was in her mid-sixties. It still wasn’t too late, not quite, not with the rejuv treatments she’d had. She was the physical equivalent of a woman in her late thirties, perhaps forty…and she’d been considering her options. Seriously considering them. She’d discussed it with Erika, they had both agreed. Close to agreed, at least.
And now this…if this is a war, I know where my duty lies…
A conflict now will cost a great deal…including my last chance to have a child…
“Admiral Frette…” It was Ang Minh on her direct line. A surprise. Less than five minutes had passed.
“Yes, Commander, what is it?” She knew the engineer was good at his job, but she couldn’t imagine his people had already retrieved the drone’s contents in so short a time.
“Well, Admiral…it might take a few hours to get to the memory core and try to retrieve whatever messages this drone is carrying…assuming they’re not all fried.” He paused for a couple seconds. “But I can tell you one thing right now, Admiral. Whatever happened to this drone—and probably Hurley—it was no accident. The case is pitted and there are sections that melted and re-solidified. I ran a quick scan, and I’d bet you my last credit this thing took a grazing hit from a particle accelerator. I’ll know for sure when I can run a detailed radiation scan, but that’s just a formality at this point.” Another pause. “This drone was attacked, Admiral…there is no doubt in my mind about that.”
Frette wasn’t surprised, not really. She had been prepared for the news, but she still felt her insides tighten. The implications of the engineer’s words were profound.
There was something out there. An enemy. She didn’t know if it was a new adversary or an old one returned, but one thing was absolutely certain.
War had come again.
* * *
Devon Fortis-Cameron looked down at the hospital bed. He didn’t know the dead man lying there, but that hadn’t stopped him from coming. They weren’t relatives, at least not in the familial sense that the NBs knew the term, nor friends…but Cameron and the man who had until minutes before been Hector Fortis-Samuels were closer than brothers. They were copies of each other, at least in terms of DNA. They were the same height, they had the same hair color, eyes.
Cameron tended to stay out of the political struggles between the Tanks and the NBs. It all seemed foolish to him, and he’d never felt any discrimination in the Corps, at least not until he’d gotten his lieutenancy. Ironically, his own advancement had led him to realize just how few Tanks had reached commissioned rank. He wouldn’t say he’d been transformed into a revolutionary, but he was more aware of it than he had been.
He’d come to the hospital as soon as he’d heard. He didn’t seek out his crèche-mates, nor did he have any real desire to associate with them. The NBs would never understand how strange it felt to look at another human being…one who in so many ways is you. There were the occasional twin births among the NBs, but a Tank knew there had been a hundred more just like him. It was a thought that could become profoundly disturbing, even lead to psychological disorders. But in spite of his general disinterest, he’d instructed his AI to monitor the information nets…and report any significant news about his crèche-mates. And this morning he’d gotten the news. The Fortis line had suffered its second case of the Plague.
He looked down at the body, the skin red and mottled, the bed underneath damp and matted. The eyes were closed, but Cameron knew they would be entirely black, along with the tongue and the mucous membranes. The Plague was a horrifying disease, enough to scare anyone sane. And it struck utterly without warning. It was the curse of the Tanks, some kind of celestial payback for their general immunity to most illnesses.
Cameron didn’t know why he had come. The Plague was one hundred percent fatal…and whatever could be done for Fortis-Samuels had been done, long before he’d arrived. If there had been anyone in Samuel’s life, friends, a wife, they would have already been there. It seemed pointless to request leave, to travel back into the city to stare at a dead man. But Cameron couldn’t do anything else, he couldn’t pull his eyes away.
The Tanks were envied because of their resistance to disease. It was one of the things that drove a wedge between the NBs and their quickened cousins. But Cameron thought about the illnesses that affected normally conceived and born humans. Disease had once been a scourge, killing millions, but that was in the distant past. Afflictions like cancers had long been treatable, with only a tiny percentage of exotic cases being truly life-threatening. The greatest risk most humans faced was a breakdown in the endless cycle of antibiotic and antiviral
research versus pathogen mutation and resistance. It had come close a few times to breaking down, opening the way for massive pandemics…but that hadn’t actually happened. Not yet. Whatever had to be done was done, with massive resources plowed into R&D.
But not the Plague…at least not with the same urgency…
He knew there had been attempts to find the causes of the deadly disease and eradicate them, efforts made mostly by the Mules. There had been a wave of hysteria when the disease had first appeared, but when it became clear that NBs were not susceptible, the panic died down.
And the drive to find a cure died down as well…
Cameron still resisted political thoughts, but now his mind was unsettled. He didn’t know this man lying in the bed…and yet he did. A stranger had died here…and a brother.
He felt a wave of anger. The NBs weren’t all like the firebrands from the Human Society, he knew that. He had comrades in the Corps, men and women he trusted with his life. But it was too easy for most NBs to consider their own lives more valuable than a Tank’s, to imagine, even in vague terms, that a Tank could simply be replaced by quickening another version. He didn’t know if it was the way in which the Tanks were ‘born,’ or if it was the fact that so many of them existed who seemed to those outside to be little more than copies of each other.
He looked down at the body again. “I am sorry, brother. Sorry that you were so unfortunate. Sorry that in the twenty-five years of your life no one cared enough to stop this disease. I didn’t know you, but I know you were an individual, that you lived differently than I, made your own choices, lived and loved the way you wanted.”
He took a deep breath, staring down for a moment before he turned to leave. But then his com unit buzzed. It was base command.